


the evidence of living

by gabolange



Category: The Doctor Blake Mysteries
Genre: Established Relationship, F/M, Rimming, Smut, Tumblr Prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-09
Updated: 2019-09-09
Packaged: 2020-10-13 14:20:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,167
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20583905
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gabolange/pseuds/gabolange
Summary: Lucien comes home drunk.





	the evidence of living

**Author's Note:**

> Written in response to the Tumblr promt, "Things you said when you were drunk." It's...smut. 
> 
> With thanks to pellucid for the read-through. Any errors are my own.

**

The door slams, and Jean looks up from her book. It is late, but that is not unusual when Lucien is deep into a case. He’d run off halfway through dinner to chase an idea or a suspect, but she knew he would be home eventually. That was his promise to her--to come home, no matter what--and he has never broken it.

Jean watches as Lucien steps into their bedroom. His coat hangs open and his tie is loose, and color rises high on his cheeks. He’s been drinking, but Jean has long come to understand that the alcohol can smooth out the edges of his mind, clarifying whatever picture he is building. He stays on the right side of it these days, at least most of the time, and so Jean smiles as he shuffles in.

“Solve the mystery?” she asks.

Lucien nods, tossing his jacket onto a chair, sending his waistcoat and tie with it. “Got the bastard,” he says, sitting heavily beside her on the bed. This close, she can smell sweat and scotch and the long day on him, and she runs her hand across his back. 

Jean barely catches the glint in his eye before he turns to kiss her, warm and needy. “Want to celebrate?” he asks, breath hot against her mouth, fingers already working at the skin under her pajama top. Jean nods, leaning into his kiss. She nips at his lower lip, darting her tongue into his mouth, all the while fighting him to release the slippery buttons on her satin shirt. She wouldn’t admit it outside this room, but she loves Lucien like this: heady from the win, tipsy from the drink, wanting her with a kind of fierceness that would make a different woman blush.

She shrugs out of her top, and Lucien pulls back from kissing her to stare. “God, you’re sexy,” he says, slurring a bit, and Jean wonders if he’s more intoxicated than she thought. She swirls a finger through his hair, tugging a bit, and he returns to her, kissing her neck and palming her breasts.

“You’ve seen it before,” Jean says as he plays with her nipples, pinching and rolling, as dexterous as ever. 

“Mmm,” Lucien says. “Never enough.” He nibbles at her neck, then her collarbone, scraping his teeth against her skin. Jean shivers, and the warmth that has been growing low in her belly starts to pool between her legs. 

She wraps her arms around him, opening her legs so he can settle between them. “No,” she says, arching her back. “Never enough.”

They work together then, tugging clothing off between wet kisses, trading scratches and gentle touches. Jean’s body is alight with want and sex, as she is transformed into someone only Lucien knows, someone who writhes when he whispers, “I can’t wait to fuck you,” in her ear, and moans when he bites the soft skin inside her thighs.

“I want you,” she whines, and he crawls up her body to kiss her. She turns toward him, legs open, warm and wet, ready and--Lucien pauses. “What is it?” she asks, because she has never known him to hesitate at this moment except to tease, and he is not in a teasing mood.

He smiles, and through the fog of lust Jean can see he looks rueful. “Too much whiskey,” he says, nodding down his body. He isn’t hard, or not enough for the next part of this dance, and Jean blinks at him. Before she can recover herself enough to ask, _then why did you let things get this far?_ he kisses her again, and hard. “Doesn’t mean we have to stop,” he says, voice rough. “You don’t have to stop.”

No, she is too far gone, and to leave her like this, so close, would be unthinkable. “Don’t stop, then,” Jean says, and Lucien laughs. He loves her needy, she knows, in these moments when she forgets about everything but his fingers and his tongue and the way he makes her feel.

Instead of ducking his head between her legs, Lucien rolls her over, and Jean whimpers. But this way, at least, she can press herself against the bed, as if the cotton cover might somehow generate any friction against her clit. “Lucien,” she says, turning her head to try to see what he is doing.

He kisses the top of her spine, lightly, then presses his tongue against it. Then he moves to the next vertebra and the next, and she curses his medical training, the way he maps her body one joint at a time even as she squirms. He follows his mouth with his fingers down her ribs, just enough to tickle, and gooseflesh rises on her arms.

She is about to complain again, to encourage him to move on, please, anything, when he arrives at her buttocks and presses her legs apart. She waits for the familiar dip of his fingers inside her, but instead he traces them between her buttocks, gently once and again, and she jolts with pleasure as he probes against her cheeks and in the space between them.

He leans down and kisses her rear, teeth sharp and hot against her skin, and she pushes back against him, rising to her knees. “Like that?” Lucien asks, voice muffled against her. 

She does, likes the way he can invade all of her spaces and make her want more, likes his fingers and mouth against her, likes the way his tongue follows, darting out--”Oh!” she says and starts to shake. 

Now, finally, he slips his fingers inside her, two or three, she can’t tell, stroking and twisting with one hand as he kneads her buttocks with the other, all the while leaning down to press his tongue between them. She should be embarrassed at what they are doing, but instead she shifts to pinch her breast between her fingers and presses back against her husband’s hands and mouth. 

It’s all happening fast, different, good, but so fast, almost too fast, and she could ask him to slow down, but she doesn’t want to--not really, not now that she wants to see where this goes, how much she likes it. She gives into stroke of his tongue and the curl of his fingers and lets herself be overtaken. 

It is but another moment before she comes hard, gasping for air, grabbing for purchase on the blanket. 

Jean slumps forward, catching herself against her hands, and straightens out against the bed. It is damp beneath her, but she doesn’t move as Lucien comes to rest beside her. “You’re beautiful,” he says, and leans forward to kiss her.

She meets his mouth, tastes her sweat and release on his tongue. This was new, and different, but the happy leer on Lucien’s face is warm and familiar. “You’re drunk,” Jean says.

He pulls her against him. “But I won’t be tomorrow,” he says, and she grins and kisses him again.

***


End file.
